


Knock Knock, Dovahkiin Calling.

by AbleG



Series: The Dragonborn Comes [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: M/M, Set Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-22 00:34:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12469528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbleG/pseuds/AbleG
Summary: Whiterun is in an uproar of excitement over the identity of the Dragonborn, which is still a mystery. Rumors and gossip taint what little scraps of fact can be found, and after investigating, Vilkas finds that he might prefer the rumors to the truth. Legends can be born on gossip and rumor, and Vilkas can make peace with that as long as they stay out of his business. Real people are not. With the false stories clouding all the minds in Whiterun, no one can see the truth. Not even when it walks through their front door.





	Knock Knock, Dovahkiin Calling.

**Author's Note:**

> Part Three
> 
> I still don't know if I should upload these like... in episode format or in chapter format? Because there's going to be certain entries that have cliffhangers and immediately follow up on the past events, and then some with considerable time jumps like this one. I really have no idea, guys. But anyway, have a rambley set up thing, I guess? Let the games begin. So sorry, Vilkas. Your suffering shall soon begin.
> 
> The next part will be longer, don't worry... Or maybe do worry. I can't speak for your preferences, only for the facts! Just like with Vilkas. Who will suffer. Haha. dork.

Days had passed since the dragon attack on Whiterun and there were already several hundred different stories about what had happened that night. Vilkas had heard so many different tales from sources of varying reliability that he began to doubt even his own version of what he had witnessed. It all seemed to fade into the back of his mind like a dream after waking, growing more blurry with every passing day. One thing had remained the same in all of the stories, though. The one fact that had cemented in his mind, and in the minds of every man, woman, and child. Dragons had returned to Skyrim, but so had the Dragonborn.

Who this mysterious figure was, no one seemed to know. They were a shadow and a legend, and everyone’s favorite point of discussion and speculation throughout Whiterun. Mikael down at the Bannered Mare would thrill his audiences with tales of how he had met the Dragonborn in person before the fight, and how he asserted that the man was tall and tan from wandering Skyrim alone for many years, searching for his draconic prey to finally rear their heads. By his accounts, the Dragonborn was strong and devastatingly handsome, and yet he had submitted to Mikael once he had heard his beautiful voice and had left Whiterun, admitting that Mikael was the better-looking and more well-loved man, and that he would find no bedmates in this hold with Mikael charming the hearts of it’s citizens. Nazeem claimed that the Dragonborn was a wealthy man who had offered to establish trade with his family, which was sure to bring more wealth and prosperity. This was the explanation he offered to everyone who asked him why he had raised the prices on the crops brought in from Chillfurrow Farm. Belethor told stories about how he had sold the Dragonborn the warhammer that had shattered the side of the Western Watchtower and crushed the dragon in the avalanche of debris below. It was his merchandise that had saved Whiterun from sharing Helgen’s fate. These were the stories that Vilkas was less inclined to listen to.

There were other stories still, ones that seemed to make even less sense. Vilkas had heard that Carlotta Valentia had met the Dragonborn one evening. Usually stiff-lipped about her personal life, so that no man would mistake her informality for interest, Carlotta was apparently willing to tell her tale to anyone who pressed her about it enough. Apparently, the Dragonborn had offered to chase off more than a few persistent suitors for almost nothing in return. Like some kind of White Knight out of a fairy tale, though Vilkas suspected she had embellished her tale to shame anyone who kept harassing her during working hours. Especially when Carlotta threw in a few extra details about how much more handsome and kind the Dragonborn was than any man in Whiterun. Andurs at the Hall of the Dead seemed to have a similar story about a traveler he had never seen before and could only have been the Dragonborn, sent from the gods themselves. With the selfless heart of a child, the Dragonborn had assisted him when the dead below the streets had grown restless in their tombs. Vilkas couldn’t understand why the Dragonborn would bother assisting regular townsfolk when there were dragons flying around Skyrim and attacking people, so he also dismissed these tales.

Instead, Vilkas had gone seeking answers from a more reliable source. The Whiterun guards. He had been so certain that he would be able to find at least one of the soldiers that had accompanied the Dragonborn on that night when the Western Watchtower had fallen under attack. Whether he did find any soldiers or not, Vilkas was never able to find out. None of the guards seemed particularly inclined to give too many details about who the Dragonborn really was. There was some sort of unspoken agreement among the ranks of Jarl Balgruuf’s men and the attendants in Dragonsreach. Or, like Vilkas, they were also in the dark and scrounging for scraps of truth to build the story of the hero of legend.

What Vilkas did manage to gather from the guards, be it through asking careful questions or listening to their hushed conversations was barely anything to build a foundation on, but it was still something. For his service to Whiterun, Balgruuf the Greater had appointed the Dragonborn as a Thane; he had also been gifted a weapon from Balgruuf’s own arsenal. He had also been given permission to purchase a home inside of Whiterun where he might reside and continue to help defend the city. Despite all this, the Dragonborn would disappear from the city for days at a time. Only a few guards commented on seeing him return late at night, looking tired but satisfied with an armful of animal pelts or herbs. Sometimes he would stay at the Bannered Mare, and other times he would leave to return to the wilds once again. When questioned about her guests, Hulda would merely shake her head: “Too many strangers pass through here on a day to day basis, especially since the dragon attacks have become more frequent. People are losing their homes, or simply abandoning them for the safety of a city protected by a military force and a wall. I really couldn’t tell you which one of them was the Dragonborn.” 

Vilkas had also learned, after speaking with Hulda in the Bannered Mare and coaxing a few of the guards inside for a quick drink, or seven, that the Dragonborn had a good reason not to be in the city limits. The Greybeards had indeed summoned him, and he was expected to make the journey to the Throat of the World. That wasn’t news. Vilkas doubted that anyone within viewing distance of the great mountain missed the thunderous call of the Greybeards. The Dragonborn had been summoned, and yet there had still been occasional sightings of him coming in and out of town with furs and herbs; all things that were in high demand at Whiterun now that traffic into the city had increased due to the dragons’ growing assaults on Skyrim. Vilkas only saw two likely explanations. The first was that the Dragonborn was some sort of egomaniac who never bowed to the whims of others, especially since he had discovered he had been endowed with a power greater than any mortal’s understanding. He was content to make money off of desperate people who had lost their homes and livelihoods to the dragon attacks while Skyrim burned all around him. The second option was far more likely, and yet it was even more intolerable.

Pelts and furs would indeed sell, even for a reduced price in an economically strained time. Herbs could be mixed into potions to heal the sick and disinfect wounds, which were also highly valued in Skyrim. A man trading these items could easily make enough money for the supplies and rations needed to make the arduous journey from Whiterun to Iverstead. It wasn’t unheard of for people to make the pilgrimage to High Hrothgar, even in times of war. The people of Skyrim were nothing if not stubborn and devoted to the traditions of their forebearers. Even so, the road was long. Though the distance between Whiterun and Iverstead was short on a map, the mountain of High Hrothgar separated the two settlements. Even the short cut over a lower part of the mountain wouldn’t save a traveler time. The steep paths up into the snowy altitudes took time to navigate, and the bitter cold meant carrying extra supplies to keep from freezing to death overnight. Many opted to take the longer road that wound around the mountain. Regardless of the route, the trip could not be taken without preparation. Preparation took supplies, and supplies took coin. A man trading furs and herbs could make the money quickly enough. Even if that man had nothing to his name but a greatsword and some old furs to keep the bitter winds off of his back... 

Vilkas decided that the identity of the Dragonborn was no longer a mystery that he wished to investigate. It was none of his business, and he found the subject increasingly irritating. For his own peace of mind, Vilkas refrained from all conversations about the Dragonborn. He had other things to keep his focus, anyway. Much more important things. Kodlak Whitemane had been advising him closely for the past month now. Kodlak never said for what reason he had decided to take Vilkas in more closely, that was not his way. Vilkas had a suspicion that Kodlak might be grooming him to one day take over as Harbinger of the Companions. It was a great honor, and one that Vilkas wished to be worthy of. He never asked Kodlak about it, trying to remain humble, but it had certainly put a swagger in his step. He felt much more important than the other members of The Circle. Kodlak had also started confiding in him more, as well. It was worrisome at first when taking into account Kodlak’s age, but Vilkas quickly decided that too was part of his training. It was good that Vilkas had decided to dedicate his attention to matters that faced the Companions rather than gossip. Lately, their meetings had turned towards the affliction that the entire Circle faced. The implications and concepts were challenging enough for Vilkas to wrap his mind around, but the actions taken proved even more difficult.

 

It was about this affliction that had pulled Vilkas away from the evening meal at Jorrvaskr. He and Kodlak had retreated to Kodlak’s study to eat alone and discuss things, leaving the eldest member of the Circle more or less in charge of watching over the feast and keeping the Companions in line. Like most nights, Alvis and Njada were once again at each other’s throats. The reason for their conflict had long since stopped being a point of interest for Skjor, so he had stopped listening to them hurling charged words back and forth. What had started the initial argument was, of course, the Dragonborn. Njada had made the claim that the Dragonborn was acting like a fool by killing a dragon and hogging all the glory for himself, only to disappear forever. Torvar had interrupted in his usual inebriated way and tried to calm Njada by insisting that the Dragonborn was probably just busy. It was then that Athis, the Dunmer, who had spoken up against the two Nords and questioned whether or not the Dragonborn was really worthy of glory. To him, it seemed suspicious that this man who was apparently said to be the Dragonborn was showered with praise, only to disappear before anyone could question him on whether or not he was what the stories claimed him to be. 

Skjor lazily took a draught of his mead as the debate became more heated by the moment. Sure enough, Njada soon rose from her chair at the table and sprinted towards Athis. Athis was already on his feet by the time she reached him, and they were exchanging punches before anyone could stop them. Not that anyone ever did. If you had a problem with someone in Skyrim, you were allowed to handle it your own way without anyone else interfering. Besides, this was good combat training and an opportunity to teach.

“Are those two at it again?” Skjor asked as he rose from his seat. His question was directed to no one in particular. No one bothered with an answer, either. They were all busy forming a circle around the fistfight to notice Skjor. He walked over and began shouting tips at the two of them to improve their stance or to increase the strength of their blows, though he suspected that his instructions were being drowned out by the cheering of his Shield-Brothers and Sisters. Yes, this was a fairly typical evening for Jorrvaskr.

It was Aela who noticed his annoyance. Something had taken her attention away from the fight, and her gaze had fallen to Skjor’s almost apathetic expression as he finally gave up and fell silent. She moved towards him quietly and stood at a respectable distance from him, but Skjor knew she was there. He could sense her getting closer to him. He inclined his head in casual greeting to her and she offered him a small, almost teasing grin. She did love to tease him, being young and still so full of fire. 

“What’s troubling you?” She asked simply. Not only did she enjoy teasing him from time to time, but she could read him like a book, and was the only one brave enough to approach him about what she had read.

“All these younglings scampering around.” He answered simply, nodding towards not just Njada and Athis, but the crowd of youthful Companions surrounding the brawl. It irked him in a way that he understood was only due to his age and experience. He had long since solidified his place in the pecking order at Jorrvaskr, so there was no need for him to engage in brawls of this nature. Even if they were entertaining to watch.

“Worried that one of them is going to take your place?” Aela asked, turning her attention back to the fight with mild interest. Skjor didn’t want to know to what place Aela was referring to as she watched youths attempt to assert dominance over one another like a litter of adolescent wolf pups. She seemed mildly entertained by the spectacle, or maybe she was simply pretending to be.

Skjor scoffed in reply. “Some of them might try. But that’s not what I’m worried about.”

“What then?” Aela glanced at him, becoming more serious. She heard the weariness in his voice. It was a subtle change that came over Aela, but Skjor noticed it. He had spent enough time with her to pick up on all of her quirks. Aela was by not an open person by nature. She was as cold and harsh as the land of Skyrim itself, but as hot and unruly as dragonfire. Many people never took the trouble of getting close to her, out of fear. Skjor never feared her. He respected and admired her strength of will. She knew this, and had let him in.

Skjor took a moment to answer. How could he put into words all of the things that he felt? Like Kodlak, he had been with the Companions for a very long time. They had fought in many battles and won themselves more glory than most Nords could ever dream of. But the fact remained that what they did was dangerous. They lost brothers and sisters all of the time, and after the Great War, the number of strong men and women had sharply decreased. Skyrim had seen war, and was now faced with yet a second. There had been no time to recover from the first, and the Companions, too, had taken it’s blows. Brave young men and women had gone off to fight in the Great War in the name of the Companions and had never returned. Skjor ventured a glance in Farkas’s direction. The boy’s father, Jergen, had been one of those men. Young. Strong. Now dead. The Companions’ ranks had been slowly decreasing over the decades, but nothing took away lives by the handfuls quite like pointless civil wars with motives so vague, only the young could mistake them for grand opportunities. How many more members of his family at Jorrvaskr would he have to say farewell to before this pointless conflict could be resolved?

“That they might get themselves killed.” Skjor breathed simply, crossing his arms as he focused. He decided not to bother giving a voice to what truly troubled him.

Aela seemed to sense the depth to his answer, and remained silent for a moment. Skjor sensed her mulling over his reply, as though she had heard every last thought that had been roiling in his mind before he had given his answer. “By you?”

Skjor snorted out a laugh and shook his head. He heard the light tone of jest in her voice, and was grateful for it. Aela not only understood Skjor well enough to have understood his thoughts, but she knew when to stay silent and when to pull him out of his own mind so he would not be tempted to dwell there as old men often tended to do. “They should be so lucky…”

The two paused when they heard a heavy creaking noise as the doors to the mead hall were pulled open and then shut with a dull thud. The noise lasted just long enough for a single person to slip inside the hall as discreetly as they could manage. Aela and Skjor turned their heads in tandem to inspect the newcomer to their hall.

From what Skjor could gather, the man was a traveler. He had very few belongings on him but carried a well-worn bag. His cheeks were pink and weather-worn, and his eyes had the look of someone who was deprived the luxury of sleeping regularly in a comfortable bed. He was a Nord, though. No question there. His golden hair and bright blue eyes were enough of a giveaway, not taking into account his height and musculature. He bore a greatsword on his back and was clad in an odd mix of armor. Leather and fur with iron bracers. He didn’t have the coin to afford a matching set of armor, or anything of better quality than tempered animal skin. The most telling thing about the traveler to Skjor was the expression on his face. The man looked nervous, as though he was lost or he was unsure if he was supposed to be here at all. When he noticed the brawl going on in the corner, the man looked even less sure of himself and where he was. Skjor figured this man might be more prone to listening to him than Athis or Njada at the moment, so he stepped forward to greet him.

“Just a little blood to clear the air. Hope you have the stomach for it, outsider.” Skjor said plainly, dismissing the brawl as the normal occurrence that it was. The man, not having paid much attention to anything since he spotted Njada and Athis, jumped in surprise when Skjor spoke. He then laughed softly in spite of himself.

“Sorry, yes. I’m fine… I just wasn’t sure if I was in the right place. I assume I am, but I’m not from here, you see.” The man said politely. He was well spoken enough, but the way the traveler acted had Skjor doubting his mettle. “I was told that if I wanted to join the Companions, this was the place I would have to go.”

This was what Skjor was afraid of. Yet another soft fool seeking honor and glory without realizing that he would have to earn it for himself. Too many men and women had come to Jorrvaskr for just such a reason, and Skjor had little patience for people with this agenda. Skjor could see Aela frowning as well. She was thinking the same thing as Skjor was, though she was far less tactful about it that Skjor was attempting to be.

“So you think you have what it takes? Huh. Lucky for you, I’m not the one who makes that decision. Talk to Kodlak.” Skjor said as he gestured towards the stairs. He knew their Harbinger would deal with any riff-raff that was brave enough to stand in the presence of Kodlak Whitemane without fleeing for their lives.

“Oh, I see. Thank you for your time.” The man smiled and nodded appreciatively before he turned towards the stairs and hurried down them. Skjor only sneered and returned his attention to the fight just in time to see Njada throw a punch to Athis’s jaw that knocked him to the ground. Cheers from the others celebrated Njada’s victory, and she was offered many drinks as Athis limped back to the bunks to rest, grumbling under his breath. There was no room in a place like this for the soft sons of nobles, or gentle daughters of merchants. Yet another day at Jorrvaskr.


End file.
